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Written beneath a Portrait
Of Mr. G. F. MANDLEY, of Manchester, Taken during his representation of the character of Julian St. Pierre, in Sheridan Knowles's celebrated Play of “THE WIFE,” enacted for the benefit of the
MANCHESTER INFIRMARY, On the Anniversary of the Prince of Wales's Birthday,
So stands he whilst depicting scenes gone by,
His earliest home amid the glacier'd rills; Speaks of his father with a glistening eye
Thinks of the chamois and his native hills.
But vain the pencil's mimic power to trace
The proud soul pent up ’neath that lofty brow; It may depict a momentary face,
But cannot the mind's varied workings show.
As vain its efforts to display the force
Of that wild tale, whose thrilling interest draws From the 'wrapt crowd, like thunder in its course,
The long, loud, deep, encouraging applause.
Well might the wise discriminating few,
That sat around in critic judgement there, Exclaim_“If ever Knowles a hero drew,
That hero was-nay there he is !-St. Pierre.”
Written in an Ancient Churchyard,
(ASSELYNN, NEAR BOYLE,)
Days were, when beings now in dust,
That in their last cold couch are laid, Unharmed by each Æolian gust,
Tho' toss'd by the inhumer's spade, As all of us must one day be
Days were perhaps when they
Were lovely, youthful, gay,
Here, with a grave her narrow bed,
Her pillow the damp valley clod, There rests perchance as fair a maid
As ever went to meet her God; And here, mayhap, a warrior lies,
That for his country fought
And with life's bright streams bought Her liberty—long tarnished, sullied prize.
All-powerful death ! relentless king !
That sweeps off all—the beggar, lord, Distinctions thou aside dost fling,
Nor to the monarch wilt afford One moment, heedless of his gold,
Thy fatal shaft is thrown
He is thy own, thy own, And as the peasant's heart, his heart is cold.
Time was--we were in childhood's bloom,
And life's young day-beam was all bright; Time is—’tis overspread with gloom,
And like a meteor of the night Joy shines ; but time will come, and where
Our after-home shall be
Through all Eternity,
Song of a Sca-born Sailor.
List, ye landsmen, unto me.-Old Song.
Loudly roar, thou dark-blue Ocean !
Burst thy white waves on my prow! Madly dash in wild commotion, I am on thy bosom now.
Not on earth
Had I my birth,
Why not love
On thee to rove,
Dark-blue Ocean, what shall bound thee,
First-create of Deity ? Below thee, what ? A bove, around thee? Sky and sky's serenity.
The bright moon sleeps
Within thy deeps, And the stars hide beneath thy billow ;
In thy green waves,
What extent dost thou not cover,
Round the earth from pole to line ? Who is't that would not be a rover ?
Sea and a sailor's life be mine!
Oh, how sweet
The morn to greet
Or thro' the bright
And moon-lit night Upon the deck my watch-guard keeping.
Thrice I crossed the wide Equator,
Visited the North and South ;
Thrice I washed,
While mad waves dashed, Upon the thundering Baltic's shore ;
Viewed the stones
And snow-white bones